Ohakim Enoch
@enochohakim9593
26 days ago

I met her at a coffee shop in Cape Town. July 3rd, 2022. A Tuesday.

Her name was Amara. She had this laugh that sounded like wind chimes, and she was reading a worn copy of “The Fault in Our Stars.” I made some dumb joke about the irony of reading that in a cafe full of living people. She laughed. I was hooked.

We talked for four hours. She told me she was a photographer. I told her I was a lawyer who hated the law. She said, “Then why do it?” I had no answer. Not a real one.

I asked her out the next day. She said yes.

---

The first month was a blur of sunsets and conversation. We walked through Kirstenbosch Gardens. She knew the name of every flower. We ate bunny chow in Durban. She got curry on her chin and I called it “the first thing I loved about her.” She rolled her eyes.

On August 22nd, she didn't show up for our date. I called. Nothing. I texted. Nothing. I was angry, then worried, then scared.

She called at 11:47pm. Her voice was thin, like paper.

“I have to tell you something,” she said. “I’m dying.”

---

She had stage four pancreatic cancer. Had been in treatment for six months before we met. She'd already outlived every doctor's prediction. She said she didn't want pity. She wanted coffee. She wanted a man who made her laugh.

I showed up at her apartment the next morning. She was bald now. No wig. No hat. Just her, gray skin and all.

“You still want this?” she asked.

I kissed her forehead. “I want this.”

---

The turning point came on November 14th. She was in the hospital for the third time that month. I was sitting next to her bed, scrolling through my phone, stressed about a case I was supposed to be prepping.

She grabbed my wrist. Weak, but firm.

“Stop,” she said. “Look at me.”

I looked.

“I am alive right now,” she said. “And you are here. So be here. Not in your phone. Not in your case. Not in your fear. Here.”

I put the phone down. I didn't pick it up for the next six hours. We watched the light change outside her window. She told me about her childhood in Lagos, the mango tree in her grandmother's yard, the way the street hawkers sang their prices.

She made me see the world new.

---

The last month was brutal. She couldn't eat. She couldn't keep water down. But she still made me laugh. She still asked about my day. She told me to live. Not just exist.

On March 2nd, 2023, she died. 4:18am. I was holding her hand. The nurse said, “She's gone.” I felt the exact moment the warmth left her fingers.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I just sat there, still holding her hand, watching the sun rise over Signal Hill.

---

People ask me if it was worth it. Knowing the ending. Knowing she would leave.

It was worth every second.

She taught me that living is not about years. It's about moments. It's about the way someone looks at you when they know they have nothing left. It's about putting the phone down and watching the light change.

I quit my job three months after she died. I started taking photos. Her camera. The one she left me.

I'm not okay. I'm not pretending to be. Some days I can't get out of bed. Some days I hear her laugh and I have to pull over and cry.

But I'm here. I'm looking. I'm living the way she taught me.

That's the only gift she wanted me to have.

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@misstobore967370